Field Stripped
by Dipenates
Summary: Dean gives Sam a little talk about the birds and the bees. And enthusiastic consent.


I don't want to dissect everything today  
I don't mean to pick you apart you see  
But I can't help it.

Alanis Morissette - All I Really Want

* * *

_1995, Ely _

Dean was sitting on the back stoop, guns laid out before him in order of size, an armoury resting on a tattered gingham tablecloth.

Sam had always whined about this chore but he knew that for Dean it was a kind of ritual. Dean would have sworn up and down that it was a lie, but Sam knew that there was a tiny bit of him that thought that if he polished and shined and slicked with gun oil just _so_ then Dad would come home safe.

"You have a good time at that party you sneaked out to last night?" Dean's voice was cool, as he de-cocked the hammer on his Glock 17 and stripped it down.

_Damn. _A lifetime of listening to the noises that his brother made when he was asleep had convinced him that Dean had been out for the count when he'd slid out of bed and into the living room to get dressed into the nicest clothes he had.

It wasn't even like Dean wouldn't have let him go. He knew that Dean would have driven him over to the party, and seen him home safely. He'd just wanted _something_, just one night, that was about him and not his whole family.

"Whatever, Dean." He sat down on the stoop.

Dean glanced over at the cup of coffee he held, and flicked his attention back to the gun in his hands. "That for me?"

"Yeah." Sam set it down between them, and wrapped his arms around his knees.

Dean raised his eyebrows. "Don't tell me you kids went on the rampage and I have to go talk down some irate mother who wants to know why she has beer on her ceiling?"

Sam shook his head.

"Sam?" Dean coated the gun liberally with solvent. "What is it?" He _always _knew, and Sam didn't know how he did it.

Sam licked his lips. "You know Courtney Anderson?"

Dean reached for a toothbrush, and started to scrub. "That hot blonde in your class?"

Sam nodded.

"We were talking at the party last night."

Dean smiled. "And what did Courtney have to say for herself?"

Sam hunched over his knees. "We were, uh, y'know—"

"No, I don't know." Dean ran the bristles over a stubborn patch of carbon build-up. "If you're not old enough to say it, Sam, then you shouldn't be doing it."

Courtney had smelled of summer meadows, and tasted of cola, and the feel of her tongue in his mouth had made him almost immediately, helplessly hard. Sam felt himself flush at the recollection, knew that colour was striping lines along his cheekbones.

"We were making out. On this couch in the basement. And she seemed really into it."

Dean's smile lit up his face, crinkled the skin near his eyes. "That's my boy."

"But then she wanted to go outside. There was a bonfire in the yard." Sam rubbed his nose, stomach fluttering like a flag in the breeze. "Jonathan Levitt said that I could have stolen home if I'd gotten her to drink some more punch. There was a forty of vodka in there."

Dean's smile slipped, and his hands stilled on his gun. It was so quiet that Sam could hear the lazy breeze whispering across the stalks of grass in the backyard.

"And what do you think, Sam?"

Sam shrugged, the words caught in his throat.

"I'm thinking that I should have made you watch _way _more after school specials." Dean rested his gun on his leg and picked up the mug of coffee. "Because then you might not be sitting there not sure about whether or not felony sexual assault is a good idea_._"

Sam felt his stomach flip like a pancake over a griddle. "That's not—"

"Yeah," Dean interrupted. "That's _exactly _what this Jonathan kid was encouraging you to do."

He took a sip of the coffee, fingers wrapped around the mug.

"There will always be fucking _assholes_ who think girls are basically spank accessories, and don't care if they're sober or drunk, awake or asleep." Dean's tone was vehement. "And then there's the other set of cosmic fuckheads who actually _like_ it when girls smell like fear."

Sam felt the horror slide down his chest and spasm in his gut. "I don't—"

"There's no such thing as sex where only one person is into it, Sam." Dean glared at him, and Sam recoiled away from the coolness in his brother's eyes. "You find a girl who wants your hands on her skin because it feels nice, and wants you inside her because she's got an itch that she wants you to scratch. And you damn well find a way to make her feel nice, and scratch that itch."

Sam's face felt like it was on fire. "Fuck, Dean—"

"Shut _up_, Sam." Dean's voice was like flint. "And when you're both done, you treat her like the person she is, and not the backdrop to stories about the sexcapades of Little Sammy. And if you think she _is_ that girl, and she changes her mind, then you make sure she gets home safe without acting like a pissy little bitch."

"Dean, I would never—"

Dean shook his head, staring at the fenceline as the tension slowly drained out of his shoulders, and Sam knew that he could ask forever and never be told. "I swear that if you ever—" He took another sip of coffee. "Don't be that guy, Sam."

Sam thought about the feel of Courtney's skin under his fingers, the warmth of her lips against his, the tickle of her hair against his nose, the softness when her chest pressed against his.

"I won't." Sam's eyes were hot. "I swear."

"Good." Dean looked at him sideways, and put his mug down, pulling the gun up from his lap. He cleared his throat, his voice softer. "Good then, Sam."

He reached one hand out to ruffle Sam's hair, and his fingers were warm and heavy on his head. "And stop sneaking out. If you get eaten by a wendigo then Dad will totally kick my ass."


End file.
